Note: this chapter contains very brief mention of sexual assault/rape and potential self-harm; and some description of trauma following a life-changing event.

•••

Around an hour and a half after the paramedics have first arrived for George, he finds himself in a brightly-lit room; with some medical tape stuck to his forearm from where the nurses have taken his bloods for testing. He is laid in another hospital bed, in a hospital gown, because his normal clothing is covered in his own vomit. On the way to the hospital, George threw up again — because he'd been so out-of-it, he hadn't felt the sensation of it coming; so he couldn't warn anybody in time to help reposition him before he ruined his outfit. Andrew is sat in a chair by his best friend's side, flicking through a TV guide as a means of distracting them both.

"Absolutely nothing good on tonight," he comments in monotonous disappointment; before he closes the magazine and tosses it onto the bedside table. "How you feeling, Yog?"

"Dreadful," George responds honestly, closing his eyes to partially-mask at least some of the dazzling lighting in the room. "I'd rather die than feel like this."

"Oh come on — don't say that mate." Andrew offers a friendly pat on the back, but it does little to make George feel better. "You'll feel better after a good nights' sleep, with some luck."

"Thing is, will I?" Although George is still very woozy, he somehow has the level of comprehension skills to realise he's experiencing fear. "I might not ever want to go out again now."

"It was one shitty person. She's the first twat you've encountered in all the years we've gone out for," Andrew attempts to reassure him. "And you'll be more vigilant now, surely."

"I shouldn't have to be," George argues hopelessly. "What could have happened if I didn't get away from her when I did?"

"That's something we don't need to think about, thankfully." Andrew averts his gaze downwards, not deeming it appropriate to maintain eye contact with his friend. "You got away pretty lightly. It could have been a lot worse. But it wasn't."

"I could have been raped," George murmurs, the sickening thought churning his stomach even more than it already has been churning. "She could have taken me somewhere and fucked me — or left me for dead — and I'd probably never remember it!" His expression becomes one of anger, tinged with panic; at the idea of what could have been. He starts shaking at the thought; his hand runs frantically through his hair as a means of expelling some of the intense urge to fidget that he's developed.

Andrew rests his hand on George's, to stop his trembling. "Hey, George. You're okay. You're alright. You're just shaken up, and that's alright. And it could take some time to get over, but you have to remind yourself that you defended yourself and you got out." The physical contact causes George to look him in the eyes; although his eyes are partly-lidded from the fatigue he's feeling. Andrew offers him a genuine smile. "You did great, mate. You're still doing great."

George tries to slow his breathing, as a way of calming himself down. He inhales through his nose; before releasing the air through his mouth slowly. He keeps his eyes firmly on Andrew's as he repeats this a few times, until he starts to regain a normal respiratory pattern. Once he's satisfied with himself for ridding all the tension from his body, he looks away from Andrew — although, this is also due to the door opening, to reveal Stephanie.

"Oh my god, babe!" she cries, rushing over to her boyfriend to check he's okay. "I tried to get here as soon as I could — taxi was late, wasn't it? Are you alright? Are you okay?" She is frantic; perhaps with good reason.

"He's doing okay Steph," Andrew answers for him. "He's been sick a couple of times, and has similar symptoms to if he was drunk. But he should be okay soon."

"I knew something bad would happen. I was worried all night." She frowns, feeling sympathy for George. She takes a seat the other side of him. "As soon as I got a call at eleven at night, I knew something was wrong."

"Luckily, he isn't doing too badly," Andrew informs her. "The nurses reckon he'll be right as rain by tomorrow; perhaps the day after, at a push."

"Oh, I hope so," she frowns, running her fingers through her partner's messy, drooped quiff. "My poor Georgie."

•••

The following day, George is sent home on the condition that he rests up, so that he can fully recover. The tests he had to undertake in the hospital came back revealing that he had, in fact, been spiked by Jules at the club. By now, he's as alert as he was before the incident; however, he is still suffering mildly from the physical symptoms such as fatigue, and headaches. He's just glad that the situation never progressed as far as it could have done — his mind still creates imaginary scenarios, though, in which he sees the disgustingly vivid images of Jules sexually assaulting him; and him not even being fully aware of such an act. He knows it never happened; he knows it won't happen — but with how much time he's had to overthink it all, it's borderline impossible not to question the 'what ifs'.

The doorbell rings, so Steph rushes to answer it. "I'll let your mum in. Then I'll be going to do some food shopping for us." She grabs her jacket from the back of the sofa; slipping it on as she heads towards the hallway to invite George's mother, Lesley, inside. The pair enter the living room, where George is sprawled across the sofa; he's wrapped up in a blanket to conserve some of his own body heat.

He looks up to her, giving a weak smile. "Hiya, Mum."

"I'll just nip out then," Steph quickly intercepts. "Keep resting, babe. I'll be back in a while." With that, she leaves the house — thus, George and his mother are alone.

"What are we going to do with you, hey?" she questions rhetorically, taking a seat by her son's side. "My poor baby, getting caught up on a night out."

"I'm fine though, Mum," George reassures her, dismissing the turmoil he's been through as of late. "And how are you?"

"Worried about you, you daft thing." She snickers gently, to mask her true concern for her offspring. "You're my little boy. My only boy. You can't be scaring me like that, Georgios."

"Ouch — hitting me with the birth name," he speaks; although he's being playful, his monotonous tone almost suggests otherwise. "It's not even a Sunday, Mother."

"Well, I'm just glad you're on the mend now. And Stephanie's been looking after you?"

"Yeah. She's obviously just gone food shopping as you know. But Andrew was brilliant, too." He nestles himself further into his bundle of blankets, as he feels shivers running down his back. "He stayed with me all night."

"Well that's what friends are for, isn't it?" she responds, rubbing his cheek with the back of her index finger comfortingly. "He's a good one. And so's Steph. Marriage material, she is."

"Goodness me," George chuckles; perhaps the first hint of emphasis he's placed on any response he's given so far. He isn't particularly keen on the idea of discussing marriage to a woman he is not romantically interested in. He says no more, which he is hopeful will naturally divert the topic elsewhere. This logic, however, is proven wrong — when Lesley speaks up again.

"Do you plan on marrying her, George?"

He hesitates a moment, with a pokerface to avoid his mother misreading any facial expression he could potentially make. "Well," he breathes, still unsure of how to answer the question. "Um, I mean." Still, his brain doesn't allow thoughts to pass through successfully. "It's—" Finally, his head gets into gear, as he reels off the same excuse as he gave to Steph when she last asked. "Never say never, you know?"

Lesley seems satisfied with this answer; she shows this by nodding her head in understanding. "Of course. It's just about being ready, isn't it, my darling?"

"That's the one." He views this as a valid justification, so he goes along with it. "I'm still young anyway. Got my whole life ahead of me, haven't I?"

"I suppose that's true," she agrees. "No reason to rush these things as long as the love is always there."

"Yeah. Isn't love a funny thing," he murmurs; although the structure of this remark is reminiscent of a question, he places no inflections on any words, so it comes out as a statement. "How's Dad, anyway?"

"Oh, he's fine." Lesley swats the air with her hand dismissively. "He would have come today, but he's had a hell of a day of it, at the restaurant."

"That's fair enough," George reasons, closing his eyes a moment; for he feels yet another headache brewing via the horrid pounding against his skull. "He's doing well there though, isn't he?"

"Oh yeah, of course. He's just been feeling the pinch a bit lately, because he's had a few critics visit." She draws a breath in, before continuing. "Luckily, though, they all seemed to love it."

"Well that's good. Will they be writing an article about it anywhere?"

"He hopes so. Although, he also hopes it'll be a good article if there is one." She chuckles, rolling her eyes upwards in amusement. "He wants the business, so that he has the option to expand in future if he wants to."

"That's a good idea." George nods in understanding, one of his hands emerging from the numerous layers of blanket to rub against his throbbing temple. "My head's banging."

"Did you want me to leave you be?" Lesley asks. "You seem as if you need to rest, my lovely." She cups his cheek in her hand, feeling the heat that comes from his skin. "You're burning up. Please take it easy for a few days, Gogos."

George smiles at the affectionate nickname; just as Andrew calls him 'Yog' based on the pronunciation of his birth name, his mother calls him 'Gogos' because it is a common nickname associated with those named Georgios. Even as his mother, Lesley used to have trouble saying her own son's real name due to her English roots. His father, Kyriacos — known as 'Jack' to their English friends and family for ease — taught his wife, not only how to say George's name; but also the shortened forms she could select to call him by. 'Gogos' stuck through George's entire childhood, although she does refer to him with his birth name from time to time.

"I'll be alright. Don't you worry. I'm a big boy now." He presents her with a small grin, exposing his gorgeous teeth; this is enough to assure his mother that he will be okay.

"You may be a big boy, but you'll always be my baby; and I'd be lost without you." She rises from her seat, backing slowly towards the door to exit the house. "Now do as I said. Rest, and keep me updated on how you are. Don't bother getting up; I'll see myself out so you can relax. I love you, my darling."

"I love you too, Mum." He gives a feeble wave in farewell, as she disappears out of sight. The moment she's gone, he can't help but feel saddened; having people around to distract him has made him almost forget about how depressed he's been lately about his secret — but now there's nobody here, it's all coming back to him. Of course, the events that occurred last night don't help; between those two intrusive thoughts spiralling around in his mind, the intense urge returns, to do something drastic to temporarily relieve his suffering. Tears begin to cluster in his tired eyes, which he makes no effort to stop from falling. His washed-out face — from which the colour has drained due to his recent ill-health — becomes the poignant canvas of yet another display of emotional distress, as his cheeks become wet from his quiet sobbing. He feels hopeless; if keeping such a secret wasn't bad enough, now he has the burden of the terrifying daydreams and nightmares of Jules taking advantage of him that he must bear.

After a few minutes of letting his crying override everything else, he finally allows it to subside into complete silence. With an expression of self-pity, an idea comes to his head. With nothing really to lose, he hoists himself up from off the sofa — something that is a lot harder to do, when one is already weak — and heads towards the hallway. He halts when he reaches the little table by the stairs, that seats the telephone. He lifts the phone from its receiver, before dialling a number he has never dialled before. He brings the phone to his ear, leaving his mouth slightly-open for easier breathing while it rings. Eventually, the recipient picks up.

"Hello?" the well-spoken accent speaks.

George's breath hitches in his oesophagus; almost as if he's suddenly forgotten how to use any words within the English language. He hurriedly clears his throat, as not to keep them waiting for a response; before he dares to answer.

"I really hope this isn't an inconvenient time; but, um ... H-Hi Levi. It's George. I ... I just needed to talk to someone."

•••

Chapter eight! Hope you're still enjoying the story. xx